just like clockwork
by escapiism
Summary: This is a story about a girl who was fearless, and a boy who was, too. / Let's rewind, and start from there, an hour at a time. [no incest!]
1. with every heartbeat i have left

**title:** just like clockwork

 **a/n:** i think this is the most difficult thing i've had to tackle in writing. i didn't expect it to turn out as it did, but, well... it did. i'm a sucker for complicated sibling relationships, so i tried to make this as complicated as possible. mostly told in ali's pov, because we all sort of know what happened to jason when she was gone. slightly angsty, i guess, but fluffy at times, too. not exactly canon-compliant, for jason's around after the time jump, and ali doesn't check herself in the mental institution.

 **summary:** This is a story about a girl who was fearless, and a boy who was, too. / Let's rewind, and start from there, an hour at a time. _—_ alison/jason, and how things change over time. [no incest!]

* * *

 **with every heartbeat i have left...**

* * *

 **12.**

Her fingernails are raked, and bloody, and her hands are rough in all the wrong places. It's two in the fucking morning, and she's out in the cemetery, a lovely November breeze prickling her skin. It's freezing her, it's freezing her, and she can _feel_ the ice on the surface, but she doesn't care, for her tears are warming her up, piece by piece.

She's breathing into the air, and she's still crying. The ghost of her last breath lingers in the ghost of many last breaths before that, but she doesn't seem to be noticing anything, because her head's underwater, and every noise is so muffled she lets it pass by her within heartbeats.

She says the first words she's said since it happened—"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything to happen to you, and it wasn't your fault, and I wish, I _wish..."_ And then she stops, because she's pretty sure she'll crumble into the thin, thin air if she even so utters another word.

She looks out into the darkness, and closes her eyes. "You and I both know it shouldn't have been you. I shouldn't have let you go to find her, to find Elliot, and... I'm sorry _."_ She pauses. "You forgive me... right _?"_

It's a while until she speaks again.

Talking to a ghost has never been more difficult. "I love you, you know. You're my brother, and you're the bravest, most fearless person I've ever known. You're my brother, and I need you."

Lying to a ghost has never been more easy. She _does_ love him, she really does, and he really _is_ the bravest person she knows, but does she need him? She hasn't needed him for years, and it's a cliché, but you only know how much you need someone when they go. She doesn't know if she needs him: maybe she does, maybe she doesn't. And now, she needs to convert to past tense, because that's what Jason is now.

Her fingernails are raked, and bloody, and her hands are rough in all the wrong places. It's four in the fucking morning, and she's _still_ out in the cemetery, a lovely November, on the brink of December, breeze prickling her skin. It's freezing her, it's freezing her, and she knows the ice has all melted, and the surface is all cracks, and nozzles, and that only signifies the fact that she's numb, and she can't feel anything anymore.

She's disappearing, piece by piece.

And then...

 _She disappeared, because he was no longer there._

* * *

 **11.**

She's never going to be able to classify herself as a good person, because there are just some things that you _can't_ be, because that's not who you are. Alison will never be _nice_ , she may try, but she'll fail each time, because that's not who she is. Like Emily can't _not_ be a good person, and Hanna can't _not_ be a bitch (like her, but Hanna has a heart), and Aria can't _not_ care, and Spencer can't _not_ be smart. Mona can't _not_ stop playing the game, and neither can Charlotte.

For her and Jason, it's pretty simple, a little like the colours of the rainbow, except more dull, and more lifeless, adding a few deaths and disappearances here and there. Alison can't _not_ be a bad sister; Jason can't _not_ be a bad brother. It's just how it is. And things like that don't ever change—make-believe is an option, pretending's always open, but never will it feel _right_ , because there are just some things you _can't_ be.

But now, Jason's lying in hospital after a run-in with her mother's alleged twin sister, and he's _dying_. He's _dying_ , and what else can Alison do but tell him that he's going to be okay and everything else will be okay and she'll be okay and everyone will be okay and he'll be okay—

"Alison DiLaurentis?"

She cranes her head up as she sees a nurse, wearing _that very expression_ , that obviously meant _that very thing_ , and Alison doesn't want to know anymore. She sees Emily looking at her in concern, and she lets it all go down the drain; she sees Spencer (given that it was _her_ brother, too) letting out a dry, raspy sob, and she lets _that_ go drown, too; she sees Aria looking torn between crying, and getting up to comfort them, but that's followed down the same way; Hanna's already crying, Ali sees that, both from fear, and a hundred more emotions, but Ali ignores that. Ali's good at ignoring. She can't _not_ ignore everything around her.

"Ali _,"_ says Emily from beside her.

" _No_ ," Ali says, and she covers her ears. "I said, _no_!"

She's never going to be able to classify herself as a person with an actual _heart_ , because that's just who she is, and she'll do anything to change that, but

it's

too

late.

* * *

 **10.**

Time's a grenade: it explodes all the time.

"I'll go," proclaims Jason, and he steals a glance at Ali, who shakes her head like a maniac. The others look hesitant, but all the same relieved that it's not _them_ who has to go and find out what's true and what's false in the world. Spencer looks more reluctant than the rest, but she agrees, eventually. Alison is still shaking her head.

"Jason, you _can't,"_ frowns Alison.

"Ali, not now," he presses.

"What do you mean, _not now_?" Alison exclaims, a little exasperated. She doesn't care about any daggers digging into her soul, because she _can't_ let Jason disappear. "How are you so sure that there will be a _next time_? This is our mother's twin—A—we're talking about!"

 _"_ Ali..."

" _I'll go with you_! _"_ Alison blurts out, and the whole world stops.

Hanna and Caleb are stiff, and silent, as if saying something will mean the walls crumbling down; Aria and Ezra exchange forbidden looks, and Aria sends compassionate ones, unsure ones her way; Toby stands where he is, a bit like a toy soldier; Spencer seems torn. Alison is shouting and the whole world stops.

Jason frowns. " _Ali_ —"

"You can't go," Alison sobs. "You're my brother." Pause. "What if you die?"

He doesn't answer. He squeezes her hand, still wordless, and then walks away. (This is their last interaction.)

Time's a grenade: it's already ticking.

* * *

 **9.**

"I wish the world wasn't so messed up, you know," Alison quips up as he pours her coffee, and she plays with her pancakes, making funny faces with the cream and kiwi. He stops, she stops, and they look into each other's eyes, a green contrasting with a blue, fire playing with rain. "It's confusing. The world. And it's not just the big things, it's the little ones, too."

"I know," Jason nods. "But it will be over soon."

"No, it won't," Ali says miserably. "And you know it."

Ali isn't stupid, but she isn't exceedingly smart, either. Looks, like words, have double meanings, and Jason's look ties in one of those, something screaming _I know I know I know_ , and another screaming the same, but with darkness looming over with a double-locked keyhole.

"Do you think Mom would be proud of us?" Ali asks, her fork half-way up to her mouth.

Jason looks at her, and props up an eyebrow. "Why would you say that?"

"Well," starts Alison. "We haven't had a fight since... last Tuesday."

Jason smirks, and takes a seat, placing the kettle back on the counter. "Ali, your face looks wonky, and your hair's terribly out of place, and... and is that a black tooth I see?"

* * *

 **8.**

He resembles a skeleton. His face is so worn-out he looks like twenty-seven going on to forty, and to Ali, _it hurts_. He is still very much Jason, and he's still _that guy_ , her brother, _her brother_ , but something's changed, and Ali hates it.

This is the first time she's seen her brother in almost four years and she hates it—moreover the fact that it really has been fifteen hundred days, and things were left incomplete, unfinished, and she _missed him_. But she also hates it because he's changed _so much_ , and it's like a mother watching a child grow up, and that hurts, too.

"Hello there, stranger," Ali hears Jason say.

Alison doesn't have much time to think, and jumps at him, wrapping her arms around him, holding him tight as if letting him go would mean being hurled down into a pit six feet under.

"Hello there, stranger right back," Ali grins. "I'm glad you came. How was travelling the world?"

Jason winces. "Pretty crappy. I'm... I'm glad I'm back."

"Jason," Ali presses on. "I know you. You're a terrible liar—just tell me if you're uncomfortable about lying about... Charlotte. I know it was a pretty shallow thing to do... ask, but..."

"Charlotte's my sister, too," Jason says. "She doesn't threaten me, not in any way. She deserves a home, and I believe that. You're not making me _lie_ , Alison, I swear." He pauses, and a smile reaches his lips. "And I'm a _great_ liar, thank you very much!"

"See? Liar!" Alison scoffs, and she takes her brother's arm.

His arms no longer have that muscular sense it did years back: he really is different. He's a skeleton, but Ali's going to make sure that he'll make it out.

* * *

 **7.**

She vaguely recalls something someone told her about how the truth made the world crash all its weight down on your back once it was out. Or maybe it was just her mind speaking out, something she hasn't let happen since she first started to run.

Her heart beats out of her chest, and her head pounds as if it will burst, and she's stuck in that wretched hospital room, waiting for him—both Jason and her father—to be discharged.

The door, it finally opens, and once she can see a hide of Jason's dirty-blonde hair, she rushes towards him and envelops him with her arms; her scent. He winces as she puts her weight on his shoulders, but all the same, she knows he is smiling, and no, it isn't perfect, but it is a start. A start. Of something.

"Hi, Princess," Jason smiles.

"Hey," Ali says, and both her and Jason watch as Kenneth DiLaurentis emerges, and walks to the exit—he's running, they know it. They both tried running before, and that only caused them to run right back, like Ali from A, and Jason also from A, and now their father, once again, from A.

Jason stays with Ali—she asks him every day if he's okay with that, and the answers are always the same, that hesitance, and reluctance, but ultimately, with that same tone of voice, "Y-yes". It will be a long time until the scars finally fade, and a long time until the cuts are covered, and every time, yes, it does hurt, like salt meeting wound, but it's okay, in the end. (Just about.)

Three hundred and forty-seven days later, he leaves. He tells her, "Yes, we'll meet again, Alison, I don't think I can go out without seeing you for..." He stops there, because in technical terms, yes, he _has_. Once before. "It's only temporary."

Ali sees him off, and tries _so hard_ to keep her tears within her eyes, and she _tries_ to forget what it's been like, even for just a year, to have a brother who _cared_. But she's Ali, and he's Jason, and siblings or not, they just can't help neglecting.

(They say you only know so much from experience.)

Ali cries for eight days straight.

She knows it's only temporary, because she knows she can mark his words, and _above all_ , she knows that even if the truth pours out like insidious tar, and even if the world crumbles down on them like chess pawns, and armour, they'll still make it out, barely scathed. They're only swimming, and not drowning. They're just caught in the landslide, and that's all.

On the ninth day, she opens the curtains, and breathes in the fresh air of Rosewood.

* * *

 **6.**

The DiLaurentis family has a history of forgetting people exist. It's the way they roll, it is, and it can't really be helped if it runs through the blood. Alison forgets people exist; Jason does; Kenneth and Jessica do, too. But it's in their bloodstream right from the start, and it's the way they roll, and the only way they'll roll.

Alison tugs on the tiny threads from her pink cashmere sweater. Her hair lands in blonde curls around her, and her jeans feel a little too baggy. Her shoes are all clodded up and _wrong_ , and she takes a seat on that front porch, _the same one she was raised upon_ , thinking about how it feels... strange. It doesn't bring back the same memories as before.

She cranes her head up, and sees Jason already against the bannister. His eyes are closed, his face a little weary, and he's shivering.

"You haven't asked me a lot of questions," Alison remarks, and he looks down at her.

"Well... I thought you might need your space," he returns.

Ali knows that look— _she_ has that look. The look of concealment, because you don't want the person you are talking about to know how you are feeling. It is the look that makes her wonder if Jason really did miss her, as a person, not a figurine. As a sister, not a dark detail.

Alison has a lot to ask him, about which soccer team won each final, about school, about playing the piano. Alison has a lot to say to him—namely, one.

 _I'm sorry, Jason. I'm sorry that you had to go through_ so much _shit because of me,_ she wants to say, she wants to shout, she wants to scream, _And it's my fault... But forgive me. Please. I want to be your sister, your normal sister. Can't we have that?_

Instead, she gives him a smug look, and tilts her head at a lopsided angle. "What was Mom's reaction when she found out I was alive?"

Jason looks at her disbelievingly, and that look is almost gone. "What do you think? She was surprised?"

 _And you'd be surprised, too, if you found out what our mom was capable of_ , Alison wants to say, wants to shout, wants to scream.

"Ali, go inside," Jason says. "The police will hound you in like dog-hunters."

Ali doesn't budge, and tries to stop her eyes tearing up. _Jason, I_ tried _, I tried to forget. I wanted to give up. I wanted to stop running. I wanted_ help _, but I was too scared. Can you forgive me?_

He sighs, "Alison, please." His voice is of such desperation she almost doesn't recognise him. His look is of such sincerity he _doesn't look like Jason_. "Ali."

 _I can't I can't I can't Ican'tIcan'tIcan't_ —

"Suit yourself," shrugs Jason, and his voice is wobbly, something she barely notices.

Alison watches him go, her head filled with echoes. She looks as he shivers again as he reaches the table, and she looks as he pinches the bridge of his nose, taking in deep breaths.

She looks at him. She looks through him. She looks into him. _Can I trust you?_

* * *

 **5.**

Chess is a pretty stupid game, and it makes barely any sense. The pawns, always at the front, even if they were to crumble into feathers and nothingness _anyway_. The rooks, acting like guards, and castle walls, with the bishops, and its sermons, and its killings. The knight, gallant in all, yet its stupidity reigning over at each strike. The queen, the beauty, and the beast. The king, the most powerful, yet the most fragile.

Alison knows where she stands, and she knows where everyone else does, too. But sometimes, just sometimes, there are people who make her want to switch players, because she realises that you can't be one thing without _not_ being the other. They come in a package, whether you like it or not.

Alison pulls the hood of her red coat over head, and walks into Room 33. She's been here before _—_ after leaving town (for good), she'd had half a mind to come back, and visit him, here, at the rehabilitation centre. Her cowardice got the better of her, and yet she's positive she's _not her anymore_ , she's frightened of what is yet to come. She smells the familiar smell of alcohol, and hears the familiar sound of screaming.

He could have _died_. Jason _—her brother_ _—_ almost _died_. She may not be A, but whatever it is, she feels the blood trickling down her slightly gnarled hands _—_ it feels like fire under her fingertips. It feels like it's

all

her

fault.

(It has to be, doesn't it?)

But however heavy-hearted she may be, Ali enters Room 33.

He is peaceful in his slumber, she declares, and even if he's five years older than her, she still sees him as a baby, as a child. As a person who knows nothing but its weakness.

"I'm glad you're safe," she murmurs into the darkness. Ali knows very well that he'll wake up, because he's not a deep sleeper, and he's scared of the dark. He'll wake up, and she'll have to tell him the lies that caused this. "I really, really am."

Cue: Jason wakes up, and he turns his head, eyeing her in sheer perplexity. She knows what will happen next, just like moves in a chess game, and she knows what she has to say to win, or even to lose. (Maybe she's already done both.)

"I'm proud of you," Alison smooths down his hair, and blinks back the painful tears. "I'm glad you got your shit back together and became the Jason I knew was _still there_." She lets his fingers glide over her face, and she lets his fingers run through her locks. She closes her eyes, because this is the first time he's acted like he's actually missed her.

"Is this a dream?" Jason asks, still dazed.

Alison pauses—she wants to tell him. She wants to tell him about everything that happened, everything she was running from, everything that had made him fall into old patterns, into rehab, with near to no support.

"Yes, Jason, it is a dream," Alison smiles weakly—it's different to visiting the other girls. She wants Jason to know, because she wants him to stand there, protect her, unlike the girls, who need protecting themselves. She wants Jason to be Jason, her brother, her best friend.

He blinks a few times.

"Get some sleep," Ali says smoothly, and lets him rest back into his pillow. Once she is sure that he is fully asleep, she leans in and kisses his forehead, brushing his hair back. She whispers, "I will be back soon, Jason. But there are many things I have to meet first."

She looks around the stripped walls, and sees a picture poking from his backpack. She knows what's on the picture, and doesn't pick it up, because if she does, she'll lose herself, and go spiralling into some vortex.

Instead, determined to _win_ , Ali turns, and places a white king on his bedside table.

* * *

 **4.**

 _Jason, I see you._

 _Jason, peek-a-boo!_

 _Jason,_ turn around _._

 _Jason, can't you see me, too?_

It loops around in circles, and goes past in an incandescent flash. It's colourful, and then it's as dull as dull can be. It's beautiful, and then ugly. It's a rainbow, and then it's a rabbit hole. It's everything, and then it's nothing.

Ali watches from behind the trees, with the slight _rustle rustle_ being her only company. She watches through the corner of her eye as Jason sits there. On a bench. Alone.

She watches, still, as _Aria_ approaches him, in a black dress (figures _—_ a funeral). She sits down beside him, and Jason gives her the weakest of smiles, and they begin to talk. Alison watches, because watching is all she can do.

(She could breathe, with a simple _inhale_ , then an _exhale_ , but her breath is somewhere between unuttered words _—_ letters all in a jumble, in an apology. An apology miles away from her soul.)

She hopes.

 _Jason,_ turn around _._

"...Did she ever?" Aria asks, and both Ali and Jason look up.

"Nah, she was too smart for that. Even as a kid," Jason sighs, and looks tempted to laugh. Ali can hear the truth, hear the purity of his words, but she doesn't want to believe that Jason resents her _to this day_. "She was fearless when she needed to be."

 _Jason, can't you see?_

 _You're fearless._

 _You made_ me _fearless._

That night, as she hides away again, and that night, when she can finally _breathe_ , she hums into the darkness.

"I'm sorry, Jason."

The silence is deafening her. Science runs backwards, and the stars; they are screaming, they are wailing.

"I can't do it," Alison says, her eyes darkening. "You're stronger than me, Jason. You always have been." An she's alone, and yet her insides, they are begging, pleading for her to _just say_ , " _Come find me! I'm here, and I need you!_ Please _!"_

* * *

 **3.**

"I need to say goodbye to someone," Alison urges as she gets into Mona's car, in a frenzy to _hide away_. A's still after her, _she isn't safe_ , but she needs to see someone, because it's more important than any of the above put together. "Please, Mona."

Mona contemplates, and then sighs, "The girls? Wouldn't it be more safe not to? If you really want to get—"

"No, Mona," snaps Ali. "I have to. Before the sun comes up."

Mona groans, but grudgingly agrees, and drives to where Ali instructs. As Alison opens the car door, her hair well hidden behind her _Vivian_ wig, Mona grabs her hand.

"Every person has two sides to their soul, Alison," Mona tells her, with a look on her face that screams Mr Hyde. "Remember that."

Alison shrugs it off, and runs to the house, _her house_ , and begins to wonder if her mother still thinks she's buried beneath the earth. The even so _thought_ brings an unwelcoming shiver to her spine, but she slithers up the black pipe anyway, to Jason's room window.

"Jason? Jason?" Ali calls, as she jumps into the room. "Are you in here?"

She's too young to be on the run—she's barely _fifteen_. She's young, way too young to be saying goodbyes to people she loves—what's the "good" in goodbye, anyway?

" _Alison_! _Hurry up_!"

He's not there, and soon she won't be, too. She jumps down the pipe, knowing that their fight over the green ravioli yesterday will be the last time she'll ever see him.

* * *

 **2.**

There is that saying—sharing is caring. Alison can scoff at that, like the way she scoffs at every cookie Hefty eats, like the way she scoffs at every cigarette Jason smokes. Sharing is just another word for "greed", and greed overpowers all, because it's this... _monster_.

Jason is _her_ brother, and hers only. She can't share him with anybody. He is hers, and hers alone—he _can't_ be Spencer's, prim, immaculate Spencer, and he _can't_ be _Melissa's_ , the Satan's spawn, perfectly imperfect in her wake.

The moment she finds out, she starts to sob. They start off as small dry calls, tiny messages telling herself that she's slowly falling apart. They escalate to fist-clenching, and pillow-kicking, because the thought, the concept, it's reached her fully, reminding her that she's already fallen apart.

Betrayal is worth than quite possibly anything else in the world _—_ death is less painful. Betrayal signifies someone you care about turning into someone you don't; someone you trust turning into someone you can't.

And yet it's not quite betrayal at all.

Alison is just... she's just _confused_. And for a girl like her, so perfectly _steady_ on the many facets of life; for a girl like her, so _knowing_ of her actions, it has to be impossible.

(But maybe she is not that girl at all.)

"Whoever it is you're seeing, secretly or not, if you barge down the door at four in the fucking morning again, Dad's going to _skin you alive_ ," Jason says, in a voice that could signify a warning sign, yet has almost no emotion laced in at all. He looks like he _would_ be able to care about her, and her well-being, once upon a time, but he's drunk, and high, and obviously hates her a little too much. He sighs, turns away, and Alison can only just about make out his next few words _—_ "I knew I shouldn't have let CeCe near her."

"Dad won't care," Alison says indignantly. Maybe, if she was that strong girl she was before, it would sound more venomous, and perhaps Jason would roll his eyes, and walk off, but that is not who she is anymore, and the words are all dry, and _wrong_ on her tongue.

 _He's not your dad. He's not your dad. He's only mine, and you're only my half-brother_.

Jason laughs, and turns around. "You don't fool me anymore."

When he walks off, Ali can only think of one thing _—_ Jason really understands her more than anyone else in the world.

She avoids him like the plague after that. It's easier that way.

* * *

 **1.**

It used to be so easy. A little like a pale blue sky, so placid, so beautiful, with the sweet, sweet pearly white swirls coalescing with that blue to make it somewhat lighter. It was a mix of perfect, and perfect. It was nothing more than that _—_ perfection. They were perfect; they were okay.

Jason used to give her piggy-bank rides over the old blue lake that reflected this oil painting, over the slightly wobbly bridge, and over the "blinking fish" (it's something Jason told her when he was in seventh grade). Jason used to complete jigsaw puzzles with her, and Jason used to play chess with her (and he always took the white side, of course, of course). Jason used to cook pancakes for her, placing the kiwi right in the middle, making them look like eyes, while squirting the cream to make a mouth, and a mono-brow. Jason used to play this "pretending" game with her _—_ it looks like lies were their life-blood. Alison was a good liar, and so was Jason.

Jason used to agree with her; agree on everything.

They have their first fight over something that is so useless Ali decides to name it ridicule.

It's over the piano, the stupid, fucking piano, but that's only the first, with more to follow, tumbling after like dominoes and jenga bricks. It's about the television, and then about books, and then about ski goggles, and then about who the fattest teacher at school is. Years pass, and then it's about drugs, and alcohol, and substance, and everything else that gets in their way.

The simplicity turned into complexity. Inky black replaced pearly white. Darkness replaced light. Words turned to daggers. Hearts turned to stone.

And yet it's the fights that make them who they are. It's the fights that define them so clearly they shine upon the stars. It's all black-and-white, but it's still beautiful.

* * *

 **a/n:**...and this is why they are my favourite siblings in the show. aria and mike care for each other _—_ they have from the very beginning. melissa and spencer, too. spencer's very unlike ali, and she shows _her_ care openly. alison and jason slip past each other, and they support each other without knowing it. they love each other, just in a different way.


	2. i will defend your every breath

**title:** just like clockwork

 **a/n:** this was _meant_ to be a oneshot, but it's been bugging me for the past week or so, and i was getting really frustrated with myself. result: a jason's pov! jason is by far my favourite character, and i still don't understand why he appears in about three episodes a season.

writing this hit me right in the feels—sibling relationships are something i can definitely relate to. okay, mine aren't as extreme as ali and jason's, but all in all, i think, even if you hide it, you love your brother/sister, and it just can't be helped. and i know this may sound incredibly sappy, but it's something i wanted to say, because that's what i used to write this—the knowledge of jason and ali, and all these hardships they have faced, and how they are one another's support system without meaning to. now, that did not come out as i hoped, but i hope you get what i mean :)

 **summary:** This is a story about a girl who was fearless, and a boy who was, too. / Let's rewind, and start from there, an hour at a time. —alison/jason, and how things change over time. [no incest!]

* * *

 **...i will defend your every breath**

* * *

 **12.**

Empty promises. Broken dreams. Makeshift pain.

( _A lie_ , _a lie_ , _a lie_.)

Somewhere, between the past, and the present, he finds himself soaring above everyone, everything, and he's piercing holes through each cloud, painting the stars black, and he's making his mark _right there_. He's all alone, and yet he's not lonely.

He's never felt this way before.

A split second disappears, and suddenly

he

is

falling.

And yet he isn't stopping—through this pit, of probable destruction, and disaster, and death, he is tumbling, spiralling, and he can _see_ it, he can see the end, and yet he isn't stopping.

(Maybe he doesn't want to stop.)

Voices, they fade in and out—loud enough for him to know that that is what they are, yet too quiet for him to distinguish the tones, and the pitches. Words stop, then start up again, and then they slowly disappear, too—and that's when he realises that he's caught in the middle, in this landslide, and yes, he's stopped. It's in an edgeway, it is doubt. He's between the past, and the present, and he's stuck.

Or, more like, he doesn't want to move. He doesn't want to choose.

 _You can choose, Jason_. _It's something you haven't been able to do for years_ — _but now you can. It's all under your hands. Jason,_ choose _!_ His own voice is cracking, and he's still there. _Alison, Jason, Alison. What is she going to do without you? She's lost too many people_ — _she can't lose you, too_.

But he doesn't know _how_.

 _One, two, three_.

He's fading away

slowly

and he has no choice—

Not anymore.

( _"...I'm sorry, I'm sorry... I_ wish _... I shouldn't have let you go and find her, to find Elliot, and... I'm sorry... You forgive me... right?... I love you... You're my brother, and you're the bravest, most fearless person I've ever known... You're my brother, and I need you..."_ )

He smiles—this is so painless, and quick, and it's filled him with happiness. These promises are fulfilled, and these dreams are complete. He doesn't remember the last time he has felt like this—maybe she is right, he shouldn't have been the one, and if he's dead, then he's let a hell lot of people down, but in this moment, in this oh so _stolen_ moment, with him becoming the past, the last thing he hears (a little more vivid than before now, a little like a soldier, and a battle cry) is Alison, and he's more than glad for that.

* * *

 **11.**

People rarely change. But when—or if—they do, then it's such an inexplicable contrast, you never know if it's the same person beneath fake words, and fake smiles. Change is like a forbidden word, lingering in the backs of mouths, threatening to spill like hot, angry tears—change is like a forbidden word, because it's like proving to the world that _you can't defy me_ , and it stops her, the blankets of green, and blue, and all things dark, and she—the ever-spinning sphere—stops _just like that_. It may be for less than a tenth of a millisecond, but all the same, _it is triumph_.

Jason looks over at everyone—five years is a long time, and yet they are all the same. Aria, Aria, and her impulsiveness, and rather shakiness—she's, more or less, the same girl. Not just from five years ago, but with all pink streaks, and tendency to awake the shadows. That's what's the best thing about her, and he knows she knows, too—it's what moulds her. She's wild, and that's who she is. Spencer's Spencer, his other little sister who he's grown to love beyond the world, and she's the same, too, still immaculate, still somewhat prissy, in a sense where it's bearable. Hanna's the same Hanna—maybe an untouchable flip from Hefty, for she found her strength, but she's still _Hanna_ , very much herself. She just stopped falling. Emily's still without a doubt in all she does, and yes, her father's death woke her up, but she's still daring, and loyal, and very much Emily in her wake. She is still the same person. And she always will be that person.

He doesn't look at Alison.

Instead: "I'll go."

They all look at him—each head is turned, each jaw wide open. Each word caught in their throat, all clammy, and unwanted. Ezra, Toby, and Caleb are in sheer shock, but are the first ones to recover—they all have girlfriends here, people they _love_ , people they don't deserve to be away from. The girls are next—Aria, Hanna, and Emily, and yes, only naturally, Spencer is reluctant, and Jason is glad that she is, but hopes this doesn't make things any harder.

Alison shakes her head.

"Jason, you _can't_ ," she says, and she frowns.

"Ali, not now," he presses on. _Please, don't make this hard._

"What do you mean, _not now_?" Alison exclaims, and Jason _wants to stay_ , but this... A... has done too much. Alison needs out of all this suffering. "How are you so sure there will be a _next time_? This is our mother's twin—A—we're talking about!"

Jason bites his lip so hard he's sure it is bleeding. "Ali..."

Instantaneously, Alison exclaims, " _I'll go with you_!"

Change makes the world stop.

And

it

has.

Jason _needs_ to do this. He needs to stop this. Alison is his _sister_ , and he's been the worst brother anyone could ask for—this is the debt he is paying. This the debt he should have paid more than seven years ago.

" _Ali_ —"

"You can't go..." Alison's voice is so devoid of desperation, and her look is one that makes Jason want to curl into a ball. Alison is sobbing, and manages, "You're my brother... What if you..." Jason closes his eyes at the next word. "...Die?"

 _If this is the last thing I see_ — _the last thing I hear_ — _you're blue, blue eyes, and you're sing-song cardinal-like voice that_ still _annoys the hell out me, then... then I love you_ so fucking much _it's hurting me. I love you, Ali, okay? I love you from the earth, to the moon, to all over the galaxy, and again, and again_ — _so promise me you'll count me on this_ , is what he doesn't say.

He squeezes her hand, and reads the lines. He squeezes one more time, until finally turning around. (This is their last interaction.)

Jason wanted to change from being a lousy brother, to one Ali could actually _depend_ on—but people rarely change, and although maybe he has, he wouldn't know, because it really is inexplicable. Maybe the reason why he can't recognise himself anymore is because he _has_.

He looks up at the sky, all inky black swirls. _You can't defy me_.

(But maybe that's all he's ever been.)

* * *

 **10.**

She resembles a skeleton. Her face is so worn-out she looks like twenty-three going onto forty, and to Jason, _it hurts_. Her blue eyes, her blue eyes usually filled up and dazzling with such _life_ , darkens, and yes, she's still Alison, very much Alison, she's still _that girl_ , his sister, _his sister_ , but something's changed. In a matter of _twenty-four hours_ , Ali's more different than different can ever be.

She was _so happy_ —so happy that it _almost almost_ annoyed him. She pranced around the house, with tears of joy, and a smile that could light up the world. Charlotte was coming home—

And now she was dead.

Ali isn't talking—she's sniffling into her pillow as Jason softly pushes back her hair. He's awkward at times like these, and he's not sure how re-enact the whole "good brother" deed. He has tried, and he knows he has, but he also knows he's failing—Alison's emotions are drooping by the second, and it hurts _so much_ he wants to cry out loud and forget all, but he can't do anything, and that's what he hates the most.

Emily is talking with Dr Rollins about Charlotte's position. They're less than three feet away, and yet the words are not reaching them. Maybe he's glad; maybe he just wants to hear _anything but_ Ali's raspy sobs.

Just as Jason is about to get up, Alison grabs his hand, so tightly, like it's her lifeline, and looks at him so intently, her eyes a million shades of _help me, Jason, please_ , but Jason _can't_ , and he hates himself for it, but he just _can't_. If he even so _attempts_ to, he'll be hurling them both down the same fate as Charlotte, and all of it would be _his fault_. How would he be able to live like that?

Her face no longer has that glow, that glow that shone like a thousand lanterns—in such a short period, she's become a completely new person, and he can't do anything about it. She's a skeleton, but he can't do anything about it, and so he has to leave it, or he'll... _do something_.

And it hurts so much he could _die_ , but Alison doesn't deserve another screw-up in her life.

* * *

 **9.**

It is in his fourth year abroad when a letter arrives.

 _Jason_ ,

 _I'm not sure how I'm meant to start this. Hi? Hello? How have you been? Dear my darling brother? I'm not really good with writing letters, but this is something important, and probably something insane I'm asking you to do, but... Jason, I_ — _we_ — _need you. Back here, in Rosewood._

 _I would never classify our relationship as "easy", because it has been anything but that. But I've known you, seen you, been with you_ — _you've been my brother since forever. And I'll be your sister forever, too. And we've just been there for each other, through, and out the ups, and down_ — _we've just... been there. We've helped each other, and I believe that_ — _there's something about us, Jason, that I can't have with anything else in the world._

 _I'm your sister, and so is Charlotte._

 _It's only a few words I need, Jason. It's only a few words_ she _needs. There is soon to be a hearing, and we need your voice. We need you to tell them, the judges, that Charlotte is no longer a threat to you. She isn't. She's a human being_ — _she is your_ sister _. Do you remember when we visited her at the psychiatric hospital a few months afterwards? The way she held onto you_ — _she hasn't had someone, not for a long time_ — _not for almost forever._

 _This is what our dad did, Jason. It isn't her fault. So please, if you can, come back. And stay._

Those two words: _And stay_.

 _One more thing_ —

Jason sees a small piece of card poking out the envelope, and pulls out a postcard. He laughs, and turns it over—it is a picture of a hotel, and there is only a half-second flinch as he realises it is Radley.

He devotes his attention back to the letter.

 _Yours,_  
 _Alison_.

He looks for the first flight available.

* * *

 **8.**

There is something—somewhere buried deep within the minds of the forgotten, about how a picture is worth a thousand words. Jason's never been even _mildly_ interested in the wonders of psychology (or would it be philosophy?—he doesn't know), so he isn't _greatly_ knowledgeable of these... grand meanings. Surely, _surely_ , words are to be the more comprehensible, for it's in actual _letters_ and formations, whereas pictures are all too colourful, and yet depressing, and a lot more intricately placed together.

The day he leaves Rosewood, Jason's unsure of what he is supposed to with his life. He's, currently, so screwed up it's hard to believe, and he's known from past experience, that he always makes the wrong decisions. (Even if it's usually himself acting against himself.)

He starts with boarding the first plane to England.

He knows that this is where Spencer is, and at about two in the morning, half into jet lag, he knocks on the first door of a set of flats, somewhere in the middle of Oxford. His head is pounding, and his heart is beating so fast _he can't breathe_. He waits, and he waits, melting into the fast cars, and chattering youths.

Spencer opens the door, rubbing her eyes, and stops suddenly at the sight of him.

"Hey?" Jason offers weakly.

"Hey," Spencer says. "Jason, come in."

Jason complies, and as soon as he is in, he can't help but let his emotions out—he starts to sob, and he can't control himself. Spencer is surprised, and a little apprehensive, but brings him into her arms nonetheless, and rubs his back up and down, side to side. She is calmly collected, and Jason admires that.

"I left her, Spencer," Jason says. "I _left her_."

"Who? Ali?" Spencer asks.

Jason only nods. "What the hell is wrong with me? Why do I always make the _stupid_ , _fucking_ mistakes? My dad walked out on both of us, and she's left in Rosewood, with..."

"Jason, stop," reasons Spencer. "You can't blame it all on yourself. It's not your fault."

"Then whose is it?" Jason scoffs. "The _stars_?"

Spencer purses her lips, and from the table, picks up a postcard—it is a nice, slightly silhouetted photograph of Radcliffe Camera, a building nicely lit within the darkness. She hands it over to him, a weak smile on her face. "In this case, she'll know you haven't left for good. And if you are ever to go back..."

"I promised her," interrupts Jason.

"Well, then, when you go back," says Spencer. "She'll know."

"She'll know _what_?" Jason asks. "And what am I supposed to write? I've tried, I've... I've... tried everything, but the moment I'm two centimetres in reach of a pen, I start to tremble, because I've _left_ my sister, just as we started to be okay around each other. What _am_ I supposed to write? _Hey_ , _Ali_ , _I just got the_ Worst Brother in History _award_...?"

"A picture's worth a thousand words, Jason," smiles Spencer. "She'll love to see, I don't know... Harrods, the Eiffel Tower... a _polar bear_... I don't know." She pauses. "And we all left. We can be cowards together, but like you said, no matter how far we are from Rosewood... the closer we are."

He nods, numbly.

"She loves you," Spencer says, and her voice weakens. "She loves you, and I know she knows that you love her, too. It's like Melissa and I... we hated each other, yet we loved each other... That's just what happens. You can't _just_ stop caring about someone—you've loved Ali the day your parents brought her home."

Jason takes the postcard, and smiles a small smile. He's never been gladder that his mom cheated on his dad.

* * *

 **7.**

The emptiness is slowly filling up the gap between the two—he can see into her eyes so clearly, like a crystal ball, and she's looking back. It's only a few more steps.

He shouldn't be doing this.

He _shouldn't_ be doing this.

He can't leave Alison like this—not in a state where she is half-alive, still surfing the aftershocks of the trail of devastation Charles... CeCe... _Charlotte_ left her in. Left _them_ in.

He's running away—he's always had the knack of hating things in his way. He's never had a problem _not dealing_ with the hardships, and he's found life easier when it wasn't facing problems.

And yet—

 _He shouldn't be doing this_.

He doesn't deserve anything—the world, the stars, the moon—he's not cut out for this life. Maybe not for any—he simply _can't_ leave her like this... Then why is he?

(They say you only know so much from experience.)

"You're not going to disappear from the face of the earth after this, right?" Alison asks, in a voice as strong as it can get—she is trembling, though, and he can hear it _searing_ through each word. "We'll... meet again. Someday. And we'll..."

She breaks.

And Jason is there to catch her.

Jason inhales, then exhales. His breathing is shallowing. "Yes, we'll meet again, Alison." He even offers a small laugh—"I don't think I can go out without seeing you for..." And at that, he stops because there was a time, seemingly _lifetimes_ ago, in which he'd lived on thinking she was _dead_. "It's only temporary."

Her grip is so tight on him, and he melts into a whole new world, with her, and together they're _not living like this_ , all confusedly trapped in a mess beyond fixing. Jason's not messed up, and he doesn't think like that. Alison is strong, stronger than she'll ever be.

And they tumble into reality.

The emptiness slowly fills the gap, until it is no more but a million miles into the distance, somewhere.

* * *

 **6.**

The moment he realises Alison is gone, unforeseen panic arises in her throats, and he _doesn't know what to do_. It's only a second later when he wakes up, a little sweaty, and a little breathless, does he realise that it _wasn't_ real.

The mask must meet its expectations.

Jason walks down into the kitchen the next morning, kisses Alison's forehead as she flicks through _Vogue_ , and sits down in front of her like nothing happened.

He looks over at her.

 _I'm messed up, Ali_.

 _And I messed up, too_.

 _Alison, I_ can't _..._

If she looks at him, he'll tell her, right to her face. But she doesn't (not that he was expecting more).

 _I'm sorry, Ali_.

 _I really am_.

* * *

 **5.**

They say the human brain can only consume so much—no matter how many billion neurons activate each thought, each regret, there is a capability. A deadline. A limit. Jason believes he's had enough of these troubles for a lifetime, or even two, and every time he so much scrambles upon new information he feels like lightning is striking within each cell, and he can't do anything but crumble down like the armour he once had on him.

He feels like he is in a haunted house.

And his mixed emotions is only leading him in the labyrinth, and nowhere out.

He blows into the wind, seeing his breath dissolve into vapour with the coldness seeping—he shivers, just for a second, and buries his hands even deeper within his pockets. This is none the more comforting than lying in a bed with a dead-not-so-much sister resting in the room next to him.

Something doesn't feel right.

And for a second, he closes his eyes, and remembers how carefree he used to be.

"You haven't asked me a lot of questions," someone says.

This voice is slightly overwhelming, and yet brings this... _nostalgia_ to his veins. He is so lost, and thoughtless _he forgets_ who this "someone" is, until he turns his head in a quick motion, and looks down. Alison is on the porch, her hands resting on her knees. The look she is giving him is enigmatic, to say the least, because with a voice so... _demanding_ , and Ali-like, the look doesn't belong at all.

"I..." He is lost for words. "I thought you might need your space." Thoughts are banging against his skull as if it is leading multiple revolts. He's lying to himself, as always. _Because I don't know_ how _I'm supposed to be feeling, Ali. I don't know_ what _I'm meant to do!_

And he gives her that look—the look which he hopes is screaming with silent thoughts.

 _Where were you, Ali? I need to know. I thought you were_ dead _._

Alison gives him a typical Ali look, smugness, and an it-girl smirk. "What was Mom's reaction when she found out I was alive?"

He looks at her incredulously. "What do you think? She was surprised?"

 _Ali, WHERE WERE YOU? Ali, I... I was going_ crazy _not knowing what happened_.

He swallows, and breathes once again into the cold air. "Ali, go inside. The police will hound you in like dog-hunters." What would have been remotely close to a joke turns, somehow, into an accusation. Jason concentrates on his sister—"Alison, please." _Am I doing well? Am I doing better? Am I being a better brother than I was before? Does it look like I actually care? Do you believe me?_ "Ali..."

 _You're my sister, and you don't even trust me._

He blinks back the tears, and walks past her, trying _terribly_ not to look in the slightest bit scathed. "Suit yourself." He slips. His voice is wobbling. His words are trying their best to balance.

 _Don't look back, Jason_.

And he doesn't. Not even once.

* * *

 **4.**

The reason he tries so hard with Spencer, is because he knows he's already failed a sister.

And so every day— _every morning_ —as he, out of habit, bangs the hell out of Ali's door to _wake her up_ from a bed she never went to, he wonders that _if_ he tried hard enough, she'd come back. Then, he walks out of his house, holding a couple of yellow files (and once again, he's _trying_ , and then _failing_ ), and looks out at the clear path between his house, and Spencer's.

Jason's frightened of losing her.

Losing Spencer, because he's already lost Ali.

It's not easy, but he _tries_ , because he didn't, not when Ali was still alive, and that was when he let her go. This _can't_ happen to Spencer, _it can't_ —he'll go madder than he already is, following conclusion after conclusion; following the mere so _fact_ that—

He'd lost a sister too many.

* * *

 **3.**

 _I'm messed up, Ali._

 _And I messed up, too._

 _But I'm going to fix things, alright?_

Old habits, they really do die hard—nevertheless, he has to try. And at each broken bottle, and at each unused drug container, he lets out silent joy.

With a scrunched up Yale acceptance letter beside him, abandoned on a small table amongst little business cards, and humbugs, he peers at a photo. It is a splash of pink, and green, and yellow, and blue—it's a photo that is old, and yet the most perfect thing in his life.

Alison has never looked so full of life. Jason has never looked so happy.

His silent whispers are the loudest—better than joy, better than anything else in the world. And just as he is about to pack this... photo up for good, somewhere in the back of his rucksack, perhaps never to be seen again, he smooths down Alison's face, so vividly staring up at him.

 _I'm going to do better, Alison._

 _I'm going to_ be _better._

 _I promise._

* * *

 **2.**

In a literal sense, a world cannot actually "come crashing down"—in a theoretical sense, maybe, if you're a psychologist, or whatever, but scientifically, for a world to come crashing down must either a comet, or several asteroids hit the planet, and neither has happened—not yet. Not for a probable _ever_.

He wakes up with (and putting it charitably) a wicked hangover—his head is pounding, and is most definitely about to burst open. But that is not the first thing he is worried about—shocks, and plenty more surprises are yet to come to surface, and he is yet to fall.

He is about to enter the kitchen when he hears his mom's voice echoing through the room—through the keyhole he can just about make out the outline of four girls. It is Aria, Spencer, Emily, and Hanna—they're voices, too, are wrung with a fear barely distinguishable, and as his mom's voice only rises, they only shrink.

"Mom, what's going—"

Jessica is staring at him like he is on fire—the next few moments are somewhat, as he now calls it, the worst of his life. She pulls him in, and cradles him to her chest, before whispering, "Alison's missing—we—we don't know where she is."

Jason coughs. " _What_? What do you mean? It hasn't been..."

Jessica frowns. "It's been long enough. Your sister is _fifteen_ , and... and..."

"And what?" challenges Jason.

"Go to your room, Jason," Jessica presses.

Jason nods, but doesn't comply, and walks out of his front door, a strange, foul taste lingering on his tongue. He is seeing stars, and spots, and all sorts of shapes, and he's utterly _bewildered_ beyond explaining.

Hours pass like aeons. The day reaches its twenty-four hour mark, and that's when the police come along.

Jason leaves his answers brief, and vague. The detective (Wilbur, he believes) narrows his eyes at him, but Jason keeps _his_ cast down, because _how can this have happened_?

When he's two steps out of the wretched police station, he receives a call—not from just a someone, but a CeCe. His insides churn, and once again, that taste of something not quite nice returns, settles on his mouth, and stays—it's only later when he realises that this... that this is _guilt_.

"CeCe," Jason utters, resembling something of a robot.

"Jase," CeCe replies—something about her, as he notices, is rather different. Her voice is weak now, and she is sniffing, although he doesn't quite understand _why_. "I... I heard about Alison." Jason doesn't answer her—but he knows the silence is filling. Filling enough. "I'm sorry. And..." He still doesn't say a word, because he knows what's going to happen next. "Jason, _I can't do this anymore_."

She hangs up before he has the chance to ask why.

He's kicking at the pavement, muttering under his breath, with mixed feelings of Ali plaguing his mind—that's when he fishes his hand in his pocket, and pulls out the tiniest note he has ever seen.

 **I know what you did.**

And on that very day—the first of September, 2009—Jason's world came crashing down.

* * *

 **1.**

It used to be so easy. A little like a pale blue sky, so placid, so beautiful, with the sweet, sweet pearly white swirls coalescing with that blue to make it somewhat lighter. It was a mix of perfect, and perfect. It was nothing more than that—perfection. They were perfect; they were okay.

Jason used to count the stars with her.

"That one looks like a headless dog," Alison says, and points at the slightly off-putting set of stars—the stars are quite vague in all they are, but it's clear enough to see the tiny differences that get to them each time. Jason shakes his head, and laughs at her stupidity.

"It's _Pegasus_ , Ali," Jason says, and he takes her hand, and lets her draw it out with her touch—her giggles make her hands shake, and she comments on how it's a dog having a seizure. Jason, too, laughs, but shakes his head, and explains, "If you turn your head slightly to the left, Ali, you can see the long bit is a head—not a tail—and the front legs, and then the rear ones. It's jumping."

"It doesn't have a tail."

"No," Jason says. "But _that one_ —" He points at one close by. "It looks like a worm, doesn't it?"

Alison nods.

"That's _Cassiopeia_ ," he says.

"Why didn't they call it _worm_?" queries Alison.

"Because, Ali," says Jason. "Things can't always be the way you want them to."

It is silent for a while, but it is good. It is promising. _They_ are promising.

That is the last time they act like friends. Fights, arguments, little tiffs are to follow, and down they cascade, falling as freely as water, about the piano, about TV, and books, and ski goggles, and anything else they can't deal with.

Things change, and as Jason became a new person, Ali became more annoyed. It's about drugs, and alcohol, and substance, and anything else worth fighting about.

The simplicity turned into complexity. Inky blank replaced pearly white. Darkness replaced light. Words turned to daggers. Hearts turned to stone. Pegasus flew away. Cassiopeia faded.

And yet it's the fights that make them who they are. it's the fights that define them so clearly they shine upon the stars, _with_ Pegasus, and _with_ Cassiopeia. It's all black-and-white, but it's still beautiful.

* * *

 **a/n:** number one familiar much? this is just something i had to get off my chest—jason's pov was surprisingly slightly easier to write than ali's, actually, but took twice as long. i deliberately tried to use different scenes, and the ones i kept the same i tried to make it as different as possible... now i'm crossing my fingers these two—or just _jason_ in general—get scenes in the upcoming season :P


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